Wordsmoker

Since June:

The Cave

Singing in the black
an introverted guess
returns home.

Notes of smoke rise
from oblivion.
A miricale for every shape

that resembles
the form of
full man here.

Those shadows
fumble to distract themselves.
The way home

is a miss of point.

______

The Cuteness

for me
has always been an
idiosyncratic corpse
of the enemy.

So torn and lain out a carpet,
I have come out of hell
for a mate; either that,
or many an immortal babe.

To graduate my prison,
a carpet constructed of insurance.
I could sell people my logic,
while speaking Chinese and pretending.

I will deal for a phone, turn tricks for friends, and
I will not hear the end of an Android-Survivalism.
At the interview for the fourth career I have going.
I’ll need something like this

–so cute to need this from me.

I was on my target, so corpse may feel a cute.
I thought about the cute little Android,
how minimalistic they make the fourth ordination of him.
He’s been here so many times.

On the initiations of destruction I feel the blazes
like Aries would uplift Hell with euphoric rolled horns.
While preparing the world for how hot I am,
I sadly forgot what I was doing.

I flopped onto my bed like a fish
to aqueous in my own oppression.
It would be a logical fallacy for Android to market
such minimalism while selling it out of

–seventy seven hours of the minimum,

I thought, its not very minimum at all.
Like, less than five minutes to dress
a robot up and get on with my multiple lives.
I moaned a song out of derp de poem,

while I also concluded that this fallacy is like my whole life.
So cute to flatter minimalism by surviving,
only arriving differently for servitude.
So structure a universe; a slave.

My chains and carpet have been cute,
yet deep within the metabolism of
Warrior is a fractal to curve all curves.
It is to be beautiful and moral

–so, along the slender corpse of flattery
(remembering what I was doing),
I called the babes
I’d be working with.

______

Remnants of (Sexy) High Energy Collisions;

Sometimes I am so horny
I cannot sit down.

I suffer from the toast
repeated
pacing
stars

Access to the root
to fixate me
round
a body.

What is beautiful to inaugurate the stars
to their nature

–the viral movement
encompassed

cyclical collision
in duty abandoned.

Evidence, memory,
and philosophy

can spiral truth into the black,
forming shapes

–lost to the meaning
we made before we immolated.

______

(Or an Untitled Nuclear Test)

The Writer’s Flood

is like the point
splitting desire;
a logic that may
carry your blazing sun
by the drowning undertow.

The current concludes my
armament; oxygen, matches,
nukes, the anti-childhood,

(shameless riot paws clawing
lavender petals around the bath)

with intel on supercapital movements
between regions rebellion, and
the grammar of war deceleration.

Yes, carry me down creativity
–so have the heart of susceptibility,
open up to the maw.
Run its course.

(peel the petals back from hair,
and bind through the dance,
robotic feline)

The point splitting fuse
will set you apart
light on the horizon.

A painting
of habit as naught.

Devour a call in
jealousy of all cats
shining around the dead.

______

(or something)

Opal of Cat Eye,

An eye in retina of
every pinch, squeeze, and scratch.

The world is tangible and alive,
but so it does a tangle.

The Opal must decide
whether or not all the fire

may entice one in mind;
philosophy of mind

may entertain yarn
until shadows split from their fabrics.

Some fire, though, can work
the problem into a finite source of end

–soluble into every experience
through every

pinch, squeeze, and scratch
is also a shotgun.

______

(When I was still a child)

All Children of The Earth

have a soul;
an immaculate fixate of finishing
the family business.

A telomere of repetitive nucleotide,
so a machine of war
might tribe us again.

In the tent of sugar totems
we stirred computer rules
like Savant Horror

–734 times
changing the rules
round acids.

Select my mate
and run my horse
with sharp steel

–it will all begin again,
this child of the Earth.
These existential scissors

will skirt out the sun
in imaginary peptides
and sexual amnesia.

So hideous a child was I,
as spotted frog
diseased with warts.

______

(On a Date)

The Super Pains,

he thought were powers.
I held out until the last hour of Witch.
His handwriting is secretive,
like my own,
but without
any Sea Horse
of God.

So that -G- curves out,
and in;

I never paid much attention.

He thought I was vanished,
then appearing for him
as I do

with so little attention
with totem
like the canyon’s edge

–G–you could fall off
into my spell,

or through a trifling.

I saw him lose his mind,
so there wouldn’t be any pain
asking about my eyes;

yellow–he thought
–was power.

______

(Red)

Violin
variable.

It doesn’t need to hold much.

You could disengage
at any time,

but to keep starring
will match
so much affect
along a chord

of evidence.

You might as well
hand me a diamond

and pour your water
over my ears

and remove me
from all fire

but one trifle
that rings

out the coiled light
like the

Beast Deity rising
out of the strange mercy.

Is he red?

______

(Counterfeit Citrine)

I’ve played dumb when I’ve known better
tried to hard to swallow
poem by night
off-guard from the vision.

I thought I could sleep
among the birds,
a frolic honest
with froth

from the brain.

______

(Watch your step) 

You are a giant,
poor bare bones,
and unwed the veil;

brush your teeth,
go to the doctor,
and cry when people die.

When you fall
there will be no decryption
and no cat to balance

the tiny little character up
the right way–
up to the nice cool air.

Something about the ground,
its noise,
and its humour

can tackle a posture of time
with more information than
you have ever learned
this far Giant.

Spread your wings
to Earth,

–to the flickering
shadow we all laugh about
before we burn ourselves.

______

(Development)

is confession that
your face may never be seen again

When you settle down,
everything disappears.

The build up
is in every artefact

to come back
home

without any life
to eyes

and all heat
from dust

to pulse;
–pulse to kiss

the witch’s toe.
Cross over it

be ready to die.
Rites in phallic point

that your wild
commune in cats,

and all your wealth
parts ivy fire.

Some signal strange
words are said.

The veil comes off.
They begin to recall the Gods

as cyans dance a shade
for all power to breathe

new form.